


Blood, Love, and Rhetoric

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-30
Updated: 2006-09-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 06:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8701780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: We're more of the love, blood, and rhetoric school.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

  
Author's notes: So many, I needed to put them all at the end. Just know 1. If you think you recognize the theme of this fic, you probably do. 2. The quote is from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. And 3. This is what I term vindictive!Sam.  
Beta thanks: Much love and worship to la_folle_allure.  


* * *

**Player: We're more of the love, blood, and rhetoric school.**

********************************************  
Well, we can do you blood and love without the rhetoric  
********************************************

Another night, another hunt, another conquest. Sam had stayed behind, cleaning the blood from their clothes as Dean went out and got himself pissed drunk and laid. He'd spent the entire night fuming. Why couldn't Dean ever take care of the more domestic duties? For Christ's sake, he felt like the little wife.

The later and later it got, the more angry Sam became. It was fucking ridiculous Dean went out all the time while he was stuck, doing laundry, eating alone, and watching old _I Love Lucy_ reruns. Wouldn't Dean just give him shit for that? It wasn't that Dean didn't invite him. No, instead every night he'd asked, pleaded with Sam to come. But Sam didn't want to get drunk, didn't want to have some faceless, nameless, night of sex to get rid of the adrenaline rush. He didn't want to watch Dean flirt with girl after girl—it was nauseating. Why it bothered him now, he wasn't so sure. Just knew it did.

And so he'd repeatedly said no and lately, Dean had stopped asking. Just started leaving.

But, why couldn't Dean stay in once? Spend some time with him? Why couldn't Dean control his hormones? Did he really need to take the 'go forth and multiply' idea so seriously? It wasn't like Sam didn't have needs as well. He'd just gotten used to his hand, used to the feeling that someone could overhear him as he jacked off, and while it didn't fix everything, it helped, enough to control himself.

So that night he sat, blindly staring as Lucy popped dozens of chocolates in her mouth as fast as possible, and fumed. Thought about how ungrateful Dean was, how it was all his fault Sam was here, that even after Dad and the demon, he couldn't get away.

The door finally opened around three am and the scent of cheap perfume hit Sam's nostrils. No classy but easy college girls that night, it appeared. Instead, Dean had just found the nicest piece of ass he could and never bothered to think about the consequences. Sam, still sitting clothed in jeans, t-shirt, and a hoodie turned to face Dean, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Still up, dude? _I Love Lucy_ that exciting tonight, huh?”

“Where have you been?” Sam demanded.

“Whoa, little bro. What's up your ass tonight? You knew where I was.”

“What was her name?”

“Her name?”

“Yeah, the cheap slut you had sex with.”

Dean eyed him warily as he chucked his jacket and tee onto the motel chair. “What's up with you? You know, I keep telling you, if you'd just go with me, you could get laid too and then maybe you wouldn't have such a probl--”

“You know what would make me not have a problem? You. If you stopped fucking every living being on this earth. God, you know you're no better than a whore, don't you? You disgust me.” Sam had stalked up to Dean, cornering him, breathing heavily.

“What the fuck, Sammy?”

“Don't you dare call me Sammy,” he hissed in Dean's ear. “Not when I can smell the sex and perfume and alcohol on you.” Then he made a move even he'd never anticipated. He reached forward and bit down on Dean's neck—Dean, whose eyes were rolling back in abject shock—and sucked on the spot. “You even taste like a whore, Dean. Like you've been used.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean's voice was just a little panicked now, and Sam couldn't resist the thrill that ran down his spine. He reached his arm up and put pressure on Dean's windpipe. 

“I am taking what's mine. What you've denied me for too long. Teased and taunted me with for too long. Every time you smile at me, or lick your lips or a pen cap, every time you whisper in my ear when you're drunk. It's like you're putting yourself out for the world to see you, all of you. And I'm the only one who can't have you. But I'm changing that. From this moment on, you belong to me.” His voice had gone deathly calm.

Dean was still staring at him, eyes very wide, mouth partially hanging open so Sam leaned forward, not waiting for anything, not asking permission, not seeing if Dean would want to do this. His body was on fire and he couldn't stop, didn't want to, and Dean be damned. He attacked Dean's pink and kiss-swollen lips.

Sam shoved his tongue in right away, moving it fast and skilled, claiming everything that was his, practically giving Dean a tonsillectomy, that wasn't helped by gradual increases in pressure against his brother's neck. Finally, when Dean gave off a choked noise, Sam drew back.

Dean's eyes were still wide, but this time, the hazel was only a rim about the black pupils. His breathing was shallow, both from the kiss and the arm. Sam shifted and nudged Dean's feet apart, creating a place in between Dean's thighs for his knee. He rubbed up first one of Dean's legs, than the other, finally settling it right against a rock hard cock.

“So, Dean,” he started, keeping his voice light and mocking. “That hard on. Still from the nameless chick, or is there something you've been wanting to tell me?” He leaned back in, nipping at an earlobe, biting down his brother's neck, sucking at his Adam's apple as he gulped. When he pulled back there was a nice purple mark that claimed his territory.

“Sam,” Dean gasped and Sam only pushed harder. Dean wasn't telling him to stop, wasn't clawing at his arm, so he must be enjoying it. “We, we have to stop this. It's wrong...”

“Wrong, huh? Wrong like dragging me away from Jessica? Wrong like taking me away and then seeing her die? Wrong like telling me I'm selfish, but then not letting me kill Dad when we all knew he needed to die—that that demon needed to die. Wrong like letting that demon go and kill a few more people while we were still healing. Wrong maybe, like you not dying when you should have from that demon and his magical claws. You should have died that night. And you should have let me kill Dad, if just to end it. But no, you made me listen to you. Your powers over me are phenomenal. No more. You're mine and you will die when I let you. You will see me walk out that door when I want. And you'll never be satisfied again because you'll know deep inside you that you belong to me.”

“You are sel-selfish,” the elder gasped out. Sam grabbed his short hair with his other hand and spun him away from the wall, flinging him down onto the bed, where Dean lay half sitting up, rubbing at his throat.

“Take it back. Take it back, Dean.” Sam crawled onto the bed, stalking his brother who was feebly trying to roll off the bed. Sam didn't let him, instead trapping him, arms and legs on either side. He paused, staring at his brother.

“You truly are a slut. You just had sex and yet, here you are. Like Play-Doh in my hands. I can form you into whatever I want. And you'll let me. Because,” he turned his voice into a whisper again, “you know inside your bones that you were meant for me.”

“And you for me, then,” Dean stuttered out.

Sam loved seeing Dean lose his control. No more Mr. Cool, not the obedient son, not the cocky brother. Just Dean's core: fear, panic, and lust. Fight or flight was kicking in and Sam expected Dean would run, not trying to save himself, but to save his beloved Sammy from whatever was going on in his head right then. Sam made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. The thought only made him angrier. He could do whatever he wanted now. Dean had to stop protecting him.

“Maybe. But right now, I'm going to fuck you. And you'll beg me like you make those ridiculous one night stands beg you, your only semblance of power. Because we both know, despite your exterior, you've always been a slave. A slave to Dad and what he wanted, and a slave to me and your deep-seated need for me.”

Sam moved his hands down to Dean's belt, leaning forward to bite at his toned stomach, suck at the hardened nipples, to nuzzle at Dean's armpits where he smelled less like the hooker and more like Dean: sweat, car interior, and his own Deanness. He yanked the belt undone and just watched as Dean moaned, the sound ripping up from his belly and hitting Sam's ears like music. He writhed beneath Sam, tossing his head this way and that, hands ineffectively pushing at the man on top of him.

Sam pulled the jeans off, trusting Dean wouldn't go anywhere. When he got like this, his mind became one-track, and sure enough, Dean went nowhere. He opened his eyes and gazed at Sam beneath his lashes.

“Sam-”

“Shut up, Dean. You've said enough. You've always gotten the last word in but this time, you won't. It's mine to take.”

He quickly shucked his clothing off, climbing back above Dean completely naked. Dean hadn't had to worry about underwear; he hadn't been wearing any.

He ran his hands up and down the beautiful body that lay prone. For _him_. He began by licking and sucking at Dean's chest, making obscene popping noises and slurps as he worked his way down, somehow knowing before the moans of approval met his ears that Dean would like it like this. As he worked down, he muttered dirty words, dirty thoughts, telling Dean the million ways he wanted to fuck Dean into submission. Over the desk, in public, sideways, anything and _every where_.

Finally he reached his goal, but instead of going for it right away, he reached both hands around to cup Dean's ass, moving his nails back and forth across the smooth skin as much as being sandwiched between Dean and the bed would let them. Then he settled on one thigh, licking through the fine hair and first, drawing nonsense patterns with his tongue, glancing up to see how Dean's stomach fluttered, feeling how his knee jerked when Sam hit a good spot. He turned his attention to the other, doing the same but then sucking, sucking a spot tender and red. Then he really let himself go and he bit Dean. Bit him until he could feel the blood begin to well in his mouth, not a lot, but a few drops.

He raised himself up to Dean's eye level. His eyes were glazed over, begging Sam to keep going, even as his hands caught Sam and followed the smooth muscle lines, slid down strong biceps, tangled in long hair. Sam leaned in to kiss him and this time Dean willingly submitted, pressing his body up and towards Sam, twining tongues and whimpering when the taste of his own blood filled his mouth. He pulled up the other leg against Sam's side, rubbing up and down Sam's leg, grinding his cock into Sam's hip, trying for friction.

Sam pulled back and laughed lightly at the sounds of protest Dean made. “Oh, you are so easy for me, aren't you, baby? Mind me calling you that? I think I should be able to call you whatever I want. Baby, Dean, mine, whore, trash. And you'll take it. So, so easy...” he trailed off as he licked at the rest of the blood barely oozing out. Then he swallowed the head of Dean's cock.

That got through to Dean. He nearly sat upright, a strangled scream escaping his lips before it turned into a litany of “SamSamSamSammy...” 

The faint musk of a woman was all over his skin, a single scratch mark on his hip. Sam didn't care; he was going to fuck that and every other woman off and out of Dean's body. And any men he might ever have been with as well.

After a few good licks, he flipped Dean's pliable body right over and Dean just made a muffled noise into the pillow. He grabbed over the side of the bed and got the lube Dean had carried with him from that night's adventure from his pocket. He lubed two fingers up, not caring if Dean hadn't ever done this before.

And was surprised, not happily so, to find out Dean was ready for him. Maybe the hooker that night had been kinky, or Dean had slept with enough men. Or perhaps, he had been hiding a kink for his little brother for much longer than Sam could ever guess. It stopped mattering when Sam's fingers slid beyond that first ring and encountered hot tightness that was his brother.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” he couldn't help crying out. So, not too many before him. Not enough to make him loose. Sam quickly scissored his fingers, filling Dean up, just barely brushing his prostrate, making Dean cry out in pleasure and frustration. The man was flat on his stomach, slowly grinding against the sheets, hands gripping the pillow. What a beautiful sight. 

He pulled the fingers out and coated himself, after finding an unused condom in Dean's pocket as well. Then he lined up and pushed in on one thrust.

“Gah!” Dean cried out.

“Uhn, God!” gasped Sam. So tight. So wet and slick and hot and he had to move but couldn't for fear of coming too soon. Instead, he calmed his breathing as he ran long fingers up Dean's side, one hand resting on a hip, the other reaching up into Dean's hair. Dean just whimpered when the hand grabbed it a little too hard, securing Sam's hold.

When he felt ready, Sam started moving, long, hard fast strokes. No nice build-up, just sex and lust and want and a sudden need for Dean. It hadn't started out this way—it honestly wasn't what Sam had been planning when he'd confronted Dean. But, now that he was here, he couldn't get enough, couldn't imagine wanting someone else, feeling this complete because of someone else. The feeling of being inside Dean, where at times he wanted to curl up and just cry sometimes, it was exhilarating. Freeing. Beautiful in the midst of his pain.

He almost stopped, almost saw what he was doing to Dean, that he was raping his brother, the man he actually loved, the only one who'd made him feel whole since Jess. But he was still so angry and when he saw Dean pushing back into the rough fuck, something inside him clicked and all his jealousy came pouring out, all his pain, his need to hurt something besides himself. And he just did it harder, twisting his hips in a way that hit Dean's prostrate when he wanted and counter-intuitive to Dean's moans and whispered begging for Sam to let him come. He would come when Sam wanted him to come.

“What did she look like, Dean? What have all your men looked like? What were their names and did any of them do this to you?” He arched his back, forcing Dean up onto his knees though his arms still gripped the pillow and he refused to take his face away from the white lump. A low grunt, a sexy low grunt, echoed from him.

“What did she look like, Dean? Tell me!” He yanked on the hair still in his grasp a little harder, pulling Dean's head up, thrust a little harsher.

“God! Fine, Sam! She—she looked like you!” Dean panted, eyes closed up, grimace on his face. Sam wasn't sure if it was the pain from Sam's fucking or from having to admit something that almost made Sam stop. But he didn't, he had to hear it all.

“Go on,” he growled.

“She, she had brown hair just your shade. It was cut short and curled up on the ends and she had these green eyes that though they were...brighter than yours, weren't yours. And she smelled...she smelled nothing like you, Sam. God, nothing like you.” He started half-sobbing, though he was still struggling, half to get away, half to make Sam hit that illusive spot.

“I-I never flirt with someone who looks anything like you—not while you're around. I never wanted you to know. Know how disgusting I am, that instead of protecting my baby brother, all I wanted to do was fuck him.”

“Oh,” Sam knew he was over the edge, that he'd gone too far, because in his right mind a confession like that would have brought hugs and tears, not the harder thrusts, not the nail scratches on Dean's hips. “You won't have to worry about fucking me, because I'm the one doing the fucking here. Only me, Dean. 'Cause you are mine.”

At that, Sam felt shudders ripple through Dean and he was coming, Sam never having touched his cock. Dean's orgasm didn't stop and it didn't stop Sam, who just kept thrusting as he too came, chanting, “Dean, you're mine. Mine, mine, mine...” until he finally blanked out, collapsing on top of Dean. The last thing he heard was a muttered, “...why Sam? Love you so much...”

****

********************************************  
And we can do you blood and rhetoric without the love  
********************************************

  
When Dean finally realized something was wrong, it was too late.

He'd walked back into the motel they had been currently staying at, tired and bruised from the seemingly inevitable bar fight. But when he opened the door, Sam wasn't sitting where he'd left him working on the computer, doing whatever research his geek brother did. Nor was he lying on one of the beds. Dean stepped in cautiously, thinking his brother might have decided to be in a better mood and surprise him from behind the door.

No Sam.

Dean cocked his head, listening for water running, a toilet flushing, anything.

Nothing. 

Then he saw it. A note. Sam just up and left without him?

But that didn't explain the weird feeling he had. Like he was being watched. He glanced over his shoulder as he picked up the piece of parchment.

_If you want him back, come play with us_ , it read in flowery script. Then shockingly enough, the ink faded and the piece of paper caught on fire and burned, not unlike those notes from the old Inspector Gadget cartoons. Definitely not from Sam then. He knew he shouldn't be surprised, but even after demons and ghosts, magic still seemed ridiculous.

He looked around again, now expecting some type of ambush. Instead, when he glanced at the door, he saw a man standing in the shadow of a tree, sunglasses on though it was twilight, who hadn't been standing there before.

Dean calmly locked the room up and sauntered across the parking lot.

“He wishes to see you,” the man said. Up close, Dean saw deathly white skin that was nonetheless beautiful for its lack of color, and shockingly black hair. Dean, who never been considered less than gorgeous by himself or anyone else, felt dwarfed by the man's looks. He was dressed in a gray suit that gave Dean the feeling he was looking at a god from the era of black and white movies, something in the tones and the luminous quality of his skin.

“Who?” Dean said, planting his feet, not ready to move until he knew who was keeping Sam.

“Him,” the man stated simply. He extended his hand and for some reason, Dean allowed his own to be taken smoothly, more because his sudden interest in the mysterious and alluring man, than because he obviously knew where Sam was, previous concerns suddenly gone.

He became momentarily disorientated before landing with a jarring thud and finding himself in a raging blizzard, only God-knew-where.

“Where are we?” he chattered, bemoaning the loss of the Florida humidity and heat he'd been complaining about for the past week. If only he'd been told there would be a change in the weather.

The man was unfazed and merely blinked, ushering Dean into a cave mouth that appeared suddenly. The moment he stepped in, he was warmed and the entrance sealed, effectively trapping him.

“Hey,” he started, but was shushed when the ebony-haired man placed one warm and comforting hand in the small of his back, gently pushing him inside further. It was then he realized it was more than a normal cave. It appeared to be made of crystal. Icicles dripped down from the ceiling, creating natural chandeliers which supported dozens of small candles that didn't appear to melt the ice. The floor was like an Olympic hockey rink, but not slippery. When he looked further in, he saw a crowd of men and women, all similar to his escort in tone of skin, and seemed to emanate light from within. They too were dressed sharply and in somber colors, odd for people who lived in a damn ice cave.

He looked up above their heads to see an ice cage, intricately designed. It held Sam. A frozen-looking Sam. His skin was turning a light shade of blue, wherever red blood, redder than the sun in the morning, didn't cover him.

That shocked him out of whatever allure these creatures had. “What have you done to him?” he cried out, launching himself at crowd.

“Halt,” came a voice.

Dean stopped; that voice commanded nothing but full obedience. The man that stepped out of another carved cave was distinguished. His voice held a light, almost British accent. Silvery hair covered his head while a dark, coarse goatee enhanced his strong jawline. He was most likely in his late forties, but still very good-looking. If these people even had ages. Gray eyes met hazel and once more, Dean couldn't help feeling he was insignificant, somehow a mutt, and not pure.

“Your brother remains well, have no fear. Though that situation may change. It is entirely up to you. You see, you are here to play a game.” The man's voice was lilting and a soft baritone.

“I don't play games,” Dean spoke up, gazing up at Sam. “I'd like my brother back. _Now_.”

The man chuckled softly. “Oh, I don't think so, Dean Winchester. See, we're quite bored, we have so little company beyond ourselves, and we've heard so much about you. Our cousins were taken back by your strength at one time. Now it is our turn.”

“Cousins?” Dean asked, confused.

The man's eyes glittered, but instead of the simple sheen and glint Dean had seen before, these eyes appeared to crystallize for a moment.

“You're shapeshifters,” he stated.

“You catch on quick.”

“What have you done to him?”

Ignoring Dean, the man turned to Ebony Man. “Congratulations, Eli. You brought me the boy and without harm or issue. You have done well.”

Eli only nodded, accepting the praise as route though no doubt it was not. Dean was reminded of his father for an instant.

“Clearly, you can't be too popular. Your cousin never mentioned you.” Dean asked.

The man seemed amused. “I highly doubt he had the chance. I'm sure you and Sam didn't sit down and have a chat with him.”

“Gee, why didn't I think to do that—you know, when he was busy torturing my brother,” Dean let the sarcasm leech into his voice.

“You would know us as snow demons. But I assure you, we are no demons and have no ties to Hell beyond our own faults.”

“Snow demons...” Dean muttered. Of course, that made sense. The magic, the ice. Only question was what they wanted from him.

“You see,” the man continued, beginning to walk closer, away from the crowd of shapeshifters who simply stood there staring, like a silenced chorus of angels. “We have no blood lust like our cousins. Not in the standard sense of the word, at least. Our only lust comes from our own sins and wants and the blood is merely an acquired taste—a bit of a delicacy, shall we say. So we never had a need to bring ourselves to any Hunter's attention. We like our games, is all.

“Humans on the other hand, true ones, like yourselves,” he gestured in a broad sweep towards Sam who lay seemingly unconscious, as he had neither moved nor spoken the entire exchange. “They have much blood lust. Everything you do involves blood. Your love you had for your father, for instance. He required of you sacrifice. And not just keeping your little brother safe. That was never good enough for him. Instead he had to have your blood. Had to see it spill on a hunt to know you truly loved him. And you gave in, followed his orders, because you knew it was what he needed. Now your love for your brother, that's an entirely different sort of blood lust, isn't it?”

“Don't talk about my father like that. You have no right...” Dean growled, but was cut off with a flash of the man's eyes.

That grey head cocked in a smooth movement. “You and your brother commit one very big sin don't you? You require from each other, not gentleness and words, but instead, each other's blood. You need him to hurt you to tell you you're alive. And he willingly hurts you, because it's what you want.”

“What I want?” Dean broke in, getting caught up in the man's words, despite vowing not to rise to the bait. “I never wanted anything but love from him—never wanted...that. He's the one who pushes me until I break.”

“You love your brother, he knows that. But for you, there is no distinction. You're brothers, each having the same blood running through you. It's all blood, you understand? Everything is blood.” And here, the man's eyes glazed over.

Dean shuddered.

“So I have stolen your most precious possession, in order to tempt you into my offer. I am willing to make a deal. Play a game with me, and, if you win, you get your brother back none the worse. If you lose, then we keep your brother.”

Dean didn't like the sound of that. “How do you know I won't just shoot you all and make off with him? I don't have to put up with your shit.”

“You have no gun.”

Defeated, Dean cursed his stupidity. His need to get back to Sam had been so strong, he thrown all caution to the wind. What would John think of him at this moment? He was no use to Sam without weapons.

“Why do you want him so bad?”

“Because, your brother is worth more than you might think.”

“My brother is my life.”

“Ah, yes. But you see, your life is so small. It is but a drop in a tiny wade pool. Your brother, on the other hand, your brother has much potential.”

Dean thought. “And if I don't play?”

The shapeshifter stepped back and gestured at his fellow monsters. “Then you both become one of us.”

“That's not really an option, then.” Dean stared at the man hard, keeping his voice calm.

He laughed, a deep chuckle. “No, no, my friend, it isn't.”

Dean shifted his feet out, adopting a bored pose, despite the fast pit-pat of his heart. He couldn't lose Sam. Two chairs and a ice table appeared. 

“Have a seat,” the man nodded at Dean. Dean sat, expecting his butt to suddenly freeze, but just like the cave itself, it felt no different from glass. Two goblets sparkled into being and a carafe filled with red liquid. Dean stared in horror.

“Have no worries, Dean.” The man was smiling, vaguely amused. “I assure you it is not what you think. Simply snow demon wine.”

“And that isn't like some code for blood?” Dean raised a skeptic eyebrow. 

“No, just made with grapes we harvest here. It takes a special grape to grow in our ice caves.”

“I'll bet,” Dean muttered, eying the bottle. “Magic. What crap.”

“Here, I shall drink first.” Slender hands picked up the carafe and poured out drink to both of them, before he brought the goblet up to his mouth, silently toasting Dean.

“And how do I know this isn't a poisoned with something you're immune to?”

“You don't,” he said frankly, putting down his glass. “You'll just have to take it on good faith that I am a fair man, and that I would rather play a game and amuse myself than kill you, leaving me with only the same company I had before.”

“A fair man? What kind of 'fair man' magics off someones brother just to play a game?” Dean couldn't help the rise in his voice.

“I play my games fair, and that is all you need to know.” His voice thundered. Dean dropped the subject.

“Tell me, have you ever heard the legend of King Arthur?”

“In high school, yeah,” he replied. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“So you know about Morgan Le Fey and Merlin.”

“I guess. So?”

“Didn't you know?” The man said in mock surprise. “Morgan committed incest. She was Arthur's half sister. Together they conceived Mordred, who was his father's downfall. So you see, incest never seems to go right. Both deeds done knowingly, both bringing about blood. Take that as you will.”

Dean had been getting angrier and angrier, not at the blatant statements, but at his tone. As though he could look down on his and Sam's relationship so disdainfully. They were the monsters, not him and Sam. But as he watched those eyes crystalize again in the light, Dean swallowed his anger and with it a bit of wine.

The first touch of it to his lips made them feel ice cold. When it swirled into his mouth he tasted cinnamon and ice and fire and something undeniably wicked and sweet. He wanted to spit it out, afraid of that taste, but his throat, in reflex, swallowed it and it coated his throat, dripping into his belly and warming him like nothing had before. It spread throughout his limbs and he couldn't help but think it was better than afterglow.

He drained the goblet.

The man across form him smirked. “We're going to play a game. It's fairly easy. All you have to do is pick your brother out of the bunch.” He gestured at the silent shapeshifters still standing there.

“That's it? Are you kidding me?” Dean felt his confidence come back. 

The leader flicked a hand at the cage and the bottom vanished, dropping Sam to the floor which seemed to jar him awake.

“Dean?” he mumbled, disoriented.

“It's ok, Sam, I'm here...” Dean stepped forward, about to claim Sam and leave, when in a shimmer, all the people looked like Sam and began jostling, some falling on the ground. “Sam!”

“Here, Dean!” came from one of the Sam's, but then another on the end shouted the same thing...with Sam's voice.

Shit.

“Piece of cake,” Dean said cockily to the man who stood simply drinking a second glass of win. “I know my brother better than anyone.”

“Do you,” the man said, amused.

Dean turned back and saw all the Sam's standing in a single line.

“Sam, come on. Don't play along.”

“It's the only way, Dean.”

“I have to.”

“It's only fair, Dean.”

Dean whipped his head from Sam to Sam. They all sounded like his brother. They all looked like his brother. He reached out an arm.

“Ah-ah. I wouldn't touch them if I were you. The one you touch is the one you get. If you choose wrong, you're both mine,” came the mocking voice.

Dean immediately drew back his hand.

“What's our dad's name?” he asked the closest.

“John.”

“What happened when you were six months old?”

“Something bad happened. A demon. Dad had to save us. He got us out of the fire.”

“Ha!” Dean yelled, triumphant. “If you'd have been Sam, you would have known I pulled you from the fire.”

“Dean!” came a large and very Sam-like wail from further down.

“Fuck,” he said, realizing that he'd just given away one of the least know things that could have identified Sam. He immediately whipped his head towards the other Sam, but by then, it was too late. The shapeshifters had already changed themselves around.

But he knew the real Sam was on the other end, now. He walked down the line, trying to take in each Sam's features. All were perfect. He wondered if each would taste like Sam, smell like Sam. But he didn't dare get that close.

“The night we first had sex, was it slow or fast?”

A myriad of 'slow' and 'fast' responses came at him, but he listened only to those directly near him.

“It was rough,” the one in front of him said.

“I was angry,” the one beside him spoke.

“I was jealous,” came another.

Dean turned to him. “Of what?”

“The other girls!” shouted the one in front of him.

The one Dean was considering, though, paused. “I think of the girls and the time you spent away from me. You made me do all this, and I never wanted to.”

Dean was about to grab that Sam's arm when another a little bit down the line yelled “Wait!”

A chorus of 'yes, don't pick him' and similar comments flooded in.

Once more, he turned his focus to the Sam before him now, having shifted down the line to the one whom he thought was the real Sam.

“When you kissed Sarah, what was it like?”

“I never kissed her. She wasn't you.”

Dean mentally reeled, because he knew that was the answer he wanted, somewhere deep inside him. But it wasn't the right one. That hurt.

“It was amazing,” said the Sam to originally make him stop. “She was warm and soft and God, I wanted to stay with her. It was the first time since Jess I felt alive. I could forget you, forget the Demon as I kissed her.”

Dean zeroed in. “Sam, do you love me?”

“As my brother, always.” 

Dean waited, but there was nothing more and he knew. With a heavy heart, he reached out a hand to touch Sam's face. “This is him,” he spoke softly.

Sure enough, another shimmer passed through the crowd and all the hoodies and jeans were changed into business suits again. 

“Very good, Dean.” The head shapeshifter wandered over, rubbing a caressing hand down Dean's arm and then back. To Sam he grabbed his chin and stared into his eyes. All Dean could do was watch the staring contest, but after a moment, the monster let Sam go and Dean breathed again.

“It's a shame, Sam. We could teach you so much. Maybe not as much as the demon could have, but enough. You would become great. You could rule.”

“I never wanted to rule. I wanted safe. And normal. I still do.”

Chuckling, the man replied, “What you do is not normal.”

“Don't you think I know that?” Sam spat. “Don't you think every day I try to stop and somehow can't? But I can say I will never use my powers. Not for the Demon, not for you, and not even for _him._ ” Sam sharply jabbed the air towards Dean.

“You'll find one day, Sam, that you just can't stop. Then, you'll wish you'd stayed.”

Sam nodded tersely but dismissively and walked away towards the entrance of the cave looking over his shoulder once. “We are through with your game. I am taking him back and you _will_ leave us alone, or so help me God, _you_ will see my vengeance.” Sam was acting as though his brother has been the one stuck in a cage, in need of rescuing and Dean stared, agape.

The man turned to Dean who blinked away his shock. Steeling himself, he looked the shapeshifter right in the eye. “I'd never give him up, not if the fate of the world was in my hands. Neither you or he could ever understand that. But if the Devil walked up to me today, just like this, and gave me a challenge, I'd do it, just to keep him safe.”

He moved to join Sam. He swore he'd never seen his younger brother so cold. Not when Jess died, not when Dad died. They stood, apparently waiting for something.

“Eli,” the man gestured, already starting to fade into the crowd.

“Wait,” Sam commanded. “Your name.”

The man turned and looked at them, smiling at Sam and eyes glinting at Dean. “My name, Sam Winchester, is Mordred.”

And then it made sense.

Eli touched them and his beautiful face suddenly became the garish sun, so bright after the coolness of the cave and Dean grimaced into its light.

“Mommy!! Those two men just appeared!” A little girl tugged at her mother's sleeve as they walked the pathway in front of the motel.

The lady sniffed at them, arms and legs tangled as they leaned against a trunk of a tree. “Nonsense, honey. Peoplesh don't just appear—or vanish. They were just around the tree.” She sniffed at them again, giving them a disapproving glance and walked away fast, holding the girl's hand.

“But, Mommy...” her high-pitched voice trailed off around the corner.

Dean shook his head to reorient himself; time had clearly passed. A night, or maybe more. Sam was standing, stock still, hand in his pockets.

“Sam, we should...we should talk.”

Sam eyed him. “Ok. What about?”

“What happened.”

Sam turned away from him. “Shoot.”

“There was a while, before you regained consciousness, that I was talking to the shapeshifter. And he mentioned,” Dean paused. “He mentioned that we—you and I—we need to do what we do.”

“What do you mean?”

“That the way we show, um...affection for each oth--”

“Hey, you hungry?” Sam began walking towards the motel room.

“Huh?” Dean blinked, jogging to catch up with Sam's long strides.

“I'm starved, how 'bout you?”

“Wait just a minute, Sam, we're talking here.”

“Yeah. But, don't you want to eat? I mean, we haven't all day. Or however long.”

“Sure, but can we finish?”

Sam stepped inside and immediately began gathering his stuff. “Yeah, yeah, continue.”

“Sam. What's with you? I'm trying to discuss something with you.”

“And I'm discussin'.”

“No, you're not. You're pacing and antsy and avoiding me. You're acting like _me_.” Dean looked at Sam. His features were closed off, not allowing any emotion to show. Sam had been like this more and more recently, and after today, it seemed worse. “Hey,” Dean said softly. “Is there something wrong? Did the shifters do something to you?”

“I'm fine.” Sam's voice was tight.

“Sammy, I'm here ya know. I want to know if those bastards did something to you. Jesus,” he realized he was being a jackass. “I didn't even think to ask that earlier. Did they mess with your mind or something—before I was there? Talk to me.”

Sam turned about face towards Dean. “No,” he hissed. “I don't want to _talk._ I want to eat, then I want to fuck you, and then I want to go to bed. And tomorrow we can get out of this fucking town and we'll forget this episode and _then_ , I'll be fine.

****

**************************************  
And we can do you all three—concurrent  
**************************************

  
“Why can't these demons ever thrive on virtue or something?” Sam grumbled as they exited from the local library.

 

“'Cause they're demons, Sam. Demons are bad.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “No shit, Sherlock.”

“Besides,” Dean smirked, “if it lived on virtues, we'd never be able to get near it. I haven't had a virtuous bone in my body since I was fourteen.”

Sam snorted. “You're such a whore, Dean. I can't believe you sometimes.”

“Like you can talk, little bro. Maybe you were virtuous once, but I'm afraid to say, you ain't anymore.”

“No thanks to you.”

Dean patted him cheerfully on the back. “That's what big brothers are for, dude. Just be glad you got one as handsome as you did.” He slid his hand down and pinched Sam's butt, getting a startled yelp from him. “Now lets go kick some demon ass.” 

A particularly lusty demon had been rampaging the town, voyeuristically making couples rape each other and then commit murder-suicides. Having caught onto the demon's pattern of victims, they were staking out the next couple. Their plan was to sneak into the house during the day and wait for the demon to make his move that night. Dean really hated this assignment simply because the only time they could take out the demon was when its concentration was focused on the victims. Meaning, he and Sam had to let the couple begin the rape before they could attack. It was the only time it was vulnerable—the only time it materialized.

They been sitting in the couples closest for several hours, Sam very quietly bitching the whole time about lack of leg room, when Dean tensed. He could feel it. He peeked through the closet's slits.

The very attractive blonde was sitting, reading in bed while her husband was downstairs watching TV. But Dean knew the demon had appeared, he could feel the sudden anger and lust that gathered around one particularly dark shadow.

“Sam,” he hissed, nudging his snoozing brother.

Sure enough, a minute later the husband came in, looking as though he were entranced.

Blondie looked up, “Hi, honey. Ready for bed?”

The man nodded and beside him, Sam's fingers tightened around his gun. Dean was suddenly hyper-aware of every movement that happened next to him.

The husband crawled onto the bed.

“Honey?” came the woman's voice, sounding small. “Is-is something wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, sweetie.”

Even in the dark, Dean could see the shadow that was the demon grow and suddenly the man lept on the woman and she let out a scream.

He wanted to turn his head away, wanted to run from the sight before him, but he forced himself to stay still, to watch and force down the bile in his throat as the lust spell took over both of them, waiting for that right moment.

Suddenly, a hand reached over and started stroking him through his jeans. He gasped at the contact.

“What are you...” he batted Sam's hand away, refusing to look, knowing he couldn't succumb. “Stop it!” he hissed, glad the violent sounds were covering up his voice. 

He shifted, his crouch position lent itself to Sam's easy access and they couldn't afford that now. “Come on, Sam. Work with me here! On a count of three. One...two...three!” He burst out of the closet, ready and aiming at the demon.

But he'd misjudged, misjudged it all. “Fuck!” he cried as the moment he burst out of the closet, Sam tackled him, scrambling up over his back to pin him to the floor and Dean's shot went wide, missing the demon entirely. He cried out again when he saw in the moment of ecstasy, the women bashed her husband's head with one swift hit of the bedside lamp and then used one of the broken bits to slit her own throat.

Dean didn't puke. He didn't have time. It seemed the demon had turned its full attention on them and they were going to go through the same process he had just witnessed. He closed his eyes as Sam flipped him over roughly onto his back, managing to get Dean's gun away.

“Sammy,” he whispered, but when he opened his eyes and looked into Sam's now chocolate brown orbs, he knew it wouldn't do any good. He just hoped Sam killed him fast, he didn't want to be the one to kill Sam.

“Shut up, Dean!” Sam hollered at him. Dean didn't resist as Sam tore at his clothing, ripping his favorite blue tee in the process, didn't move when Sam stopped holding him down long enough to unbutton his own jeans, just barely shoving them down to his knees. 

Seeing Sam like this, angry and lustful shouldn't turn Dean on, shouldn't make him want Sam. But at least if he went along willingly, maybe it couldn't be called rape and Sam wouldn't have that on his soul too when he died.

Sam was back, hovering over him and Dean could see the conflict inside him; there was a part of Sam that knew he was being taken by the demon, and he didn't really want to do this. But Dean knew he'd done it once before. For some reason Sam needed this from him. So Dean did what he could to ease his brother.

“Take me.”

And the hesitation went away and Sam was only angry and hungry and Dean arched up into his body as Sam's lips came crashing down on his.

“You're always mine, Dean,” Sam whispered harshly against his mouth. In his haste and anger, he managed to bite Dean's lip and Dean tasted blood.

Sam's hands were everywhere, tugging his hair, marking his skin, leaving little bruises and nail marks. He slid down, sucking and biting Dean's nipples and Dean couldn't help it, he started to beg.

“Oh, Sam, please, please, please...” He wasn't sure anymore if he was begging f _or_ Sam or for Sam to _stop_. But his body kept arching into Sam's touch and humming with pleasure.

It seemed to spark something in Sam though, and while he kept at his task, biting down on Dean's stomach, arms still outstretched and holding Dean's wrists, he began to speak.

“Dean. I'm so sorry. I wish I could stop. But this thing is powerful. God, Dean, love you so much, so sorry.” His voice was no longer angry, instead it sounded as though he was about to break, shatter to bits. It tore at Dean and he knew he couldn't let the guilt lie on his brother. What good was he if he couldn't protect Sam?

“No, no, you're not sorry, Sam. And when we get out of this, I am going to fucking kick your ass and that demon's. You are so dead. You messed up this hunt.”

“I messed it up?!” The anger was back and Dean relaxed, then tensed as his legs were spread apart and lifted, scrunched to his body and a slightly wet, blunt tip touched his opening. Oh, God, he thought.

“No, you fucked it up, Dean! Why did you have to bring me, huh? It's all your fault I am doing this. Your fault! Yours and that demon's.” In that moment he glanced up at the shadow.

Dean thought quickly. “That's right, Sam. The demon. He's the one doing this. It's not you. That thing is the reason, he messed up the hunt.”

“Didn't I tell you to shut up, bitch?” Sam said scathingly, but his attention had turned to the demon again. He still had a gun in his hand, too. If Dean could just make him shoot it...

“Jesus Christ, Sam!!” he shouted in agony as Sam invaded his body. God, it burned! How was it going to get past that muscle ring?

He screamed when Sam slid in to the hilt, writhing in pain, ass on fire. He _could_ almost kill Sam right now. 

Sam leaned down to bite at his neck and that changed his angle and suddenly it still burned but as Sam raked over his prostate, Dean couldn't stop his hips from thrusting up into Sam's.

He started blathering, “God, Sam, it hurts, you're hurting me, don't stop, God, let me touch you! Sam...hurts...stop...letmetouch...hurtsSammy!!” But despite all the pain, he could still feel an orgasm building in his balls and that thought made him sicker than the scene he'd witnessed earlier. He couldn't believe he was getting off on this. On his brother hurting him, and oh, it hurt like a mother fucking bitch, but that bundle of nerves was being rubbed raw and the sound of Sam's flesh hitting his ass was the hottest sound ever, and he really wanted to be sick right now.

Sam had stopped watching him, even as he kept slamming in, focus all on the demon. But when Sam's path suddenly got easier, Dean knew it was time to end this.

“Sam. Listen to me. I know you're in there. You have to fucking shoot it. Then kill me, fine, but Christ! for my sake,” he panted, eyes scrunched closed and teeth gritted, “fucking kill the bastard!”

And somehow, just as Sam's orgasm burst through him, coating Dean's insides and making his ass sting as well as burn, Sam lifted his gun hand up and shot, three times. Two rock salt pellets hit the thing and in a high pitched shriek it burst into flames and vanished back to Hell where it belonged.

Sam collapsed on him, pulling out as painful as he'd entered as he rolled to Dean's side, completely blacked out. The slight friction from Sam falling on him was enough to erupt Dean's own orgasm, though it certainly wasn't once of the most powerful he'd had, pain still too fresh.

When he came to, Sam was still passed out. He reached down and very gingerly felt himself. His fingers came away bloody, just like he thought. He wiped his fingers on his shirt beside him and tugged up his boxers and jeans, wincing and biting his lips as he did. Then he looked over at Sam. His brother had lost all anger in his completion and Dean reached over, brushing dark bangs off Sam's face. He scooted closer until he was pressed against Sam's side and gently kissed the corner of Sam's mouth, then his lips.

He knew he had to get them out of there, but he wasn't in a condition to carry Sam out yet. Instead he just laid his head on Sam's chest, feeling his heartbeat, grateful they were both alive, and allowed himself to cry, wracking sobs.


	2. Part 2

  
Author's notes: I can't claim the concept for my own. Not the base concept anyway. A long while ago I came across a Mulder/Krycek written by Sleeps With Coyotes. She based the entire fic around one quote from the play/movie, _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead_ , written by Tom Stoppard. I read the play in high school and found it interesting so I decided to read the fic. Little was I to know the concept and the fic would blow me away. It is to this day, my favorite M/K. So yes, I take credit for the plot, but the conceptâ€”all Sleeps With Coyotes. No infringement meant. You can find that fic [HERE](http://ciceqi.slashcity.com/BLR.htm) I fully recommend it, even if you're not an X-Files fan. Another side note, my version of the quote is taken from the movie, which is slightly altered from the book, though only in terms of compactness.  
Oh, so much is taken from other sources...but just think of me as Shakespeare. ;-) After all, that's what he did, isn't it? Tristan and Isolde came before Romeo and Juliet and it's been proven many of his ideas were taken from other bits of stories. Plus, we all use basic legends for these things, so it's no worse than that, right? Mmm. Anyway, my point. The idea in the second part came from a) the shapeshifter and b) a book entitled Heaven Cent, by Piers Anthony. But in that book, they're not creatures of snow and they aren't shapeshifters like on Supernatural, whose qualities I tried to instill in these demons, though they decided they wanted to be more refined than the one we saw on SPN. Who knew demons had manners? I'd originally planned on the game being Questions, which they do in R&G Are Dead, but then someone else posted a fic like that about a month and a half ago, so there went that idea.  
And the last thing credited to anyone else, is the dust devil being a Native American spirit in part four. The idea originally popped into my head from the X-Files novel, Whirlwind.  
So it's really a compilation of everything and I hope that doesn't ruin it for you, because I did work to make everything mine, still.  
The ending note is that I used a prompt from phantomas for spn_gleeweek in order to push myself to finish this fic I started several months ago. She wanted: Sam and Dean UNHAPPY Wincest. Because, you know, they are brothers. And one of them could have feeling and desires, and the other be disgusted, or both just be horrified even if feeling the impulse...but, it doesn't happy 'who cares, let's fuck'.   
I twisted it a bit to match my fic, but I still think it works.  


* * *

****

*****************************************  
Or consecutive  
*****************************************

  
“Shit, Sam! Look out!”

Sam ducked as the spirit touched down again and shut his eyes against the whipping sand.

This job had turned out to be harder than they expected. It was supposedly a simple sand demon that was having fun skinning alive tourists who wandered outside the Las Vegas limits. Instead, it seemed to be some sort of angry Native American spirit back for vengeance against the people who took its land. It took the form of a dust devil and swallowed its victim into its mouth, ripping their skin right off and leaving them and their innards haphazardly strew across the Nevada desert.

The worst part was, every time they shot it, it broke into more little dust devils, hydra-like. It had taken them a few tries to find that out and now there were six of the damn things flying around. They had to try a new tactic.

“Dean!” he yelled. “Get the dead man's dust!! And the Shaman stick! If anything'll work, that will.”

It was all he could think of. To distract the spirit from Dean, he started shooting near the swirls, though not at them. He began to run, pulling them away from his brother who bent down to fish through their bag. 

In twenty seconds he was surrounded. “Shit,” he muttered. Now what? He couldn't shoot and they were slowly closing in, making a high pitched siren noise. It started getting louder and Sam dropped to his knees, covering his ears in pain.

“Dean!” he yelled, as he felt the beginnings of sand abrading his skin.

And then Dean was there with the Shaman stick, completing a protection circle around him. The spirit devils screamed even louder and Sam's ears began to bleed. But Dean was solid, steadfast, stepping through the space between dust swirls and he took his handful of dead man's dust and spinning slowly, blew it at the dust twirls and they vanished when the dust hit them, unable to go anywhere, thanks to the circle Dean had already scratched outside them, effectively trapping the spirit.

In a moment, all screaming stopped and Sam dropped, chest heaving, blinking into the burning afternoon sun.

“Sam. Sam! You ok, bro?”

Sam huffed for another few breaths before responding, “Fine, I'm fine.” Dean's frame leaning over him was blocking the sun, forming a halo around his head and Sam laughed lightly because it reminded him of _The Little Mermaid_ when Ariel saved the prince. And wasn't that what Dean was? His savior?

“Jesus, your skin's all cut up. To think if I'd been a minute later...” Dean trailed off staring at his brother, before he suddenly clasped Sam to himself in a big bear hug.

Sam hung on, whispering, “I'm here. It's alright.” His love for his brother was overwhelming right now. Love as a brother, as a savior and protector.

He lessened his hold and stared into Dean's face whose eyes were shining a bright green, brimming with tears, though they didn't fall. He watched as his brother gently touched Sam's face with his fingertips, gently kissing each spot where Sam winced. He licked his thumb and wiped at each of Sam's ears, presumably cleaning the blood away. Finally, his lips sought out Sam's and he gladly gave himself up to Dean's passionate and needy kiss. It tasted bitter; like adrenaline, like salt and tears.

“Baby, baby,” he heard himself muttering cliché endearments he never thought he'd say after Jess, but he was suddenly feeling especially romantic towards Dean. They managed to stand and shuffle all the way back to their truck, never letting each other go, alternating kisses with gropes and death-frightened gazes.

When they made it to their vehicle, they both climbed into the enormous backseat, shedding clothing as they went. Sam was hot and sticky already and his shoulders against the vinyl didn't make him feel any better, but then Dean was above him again, bare skin shining golden, and Sam's breath was stolen away.

“Dean...” he managed to get out but was shushed by Dean's gentle lips on his. They made out for awhile, bodies sensuously rubbing together even when Dean would scrape over an abrasion, heated skin burning in a pleasant way, as though fire ran through his veins. As Dean's calloused hands gently, ran up and down his sides and his mouth descended on his neck, breathing hot air and slowly licking his way down, tears sprang to Sam's eyes. 

He was a monster, he decided. Freaky powers and an inability to show his love for Dean the way Dean showed his. Had Sam ever had a doubt that Dean loved him to his very soul, it vanished in the time they spent in the car that day.

Dean detached from him for a moment, reaching over the front seat to grab lube and a condom from the glove box.

“You want...” Dean looked at him and Sam was tempted, but gave in to the pleading look in his brother's eyes to let Dean love him. Sam knew, he couldn't love him like this, but he could let Dean show him. 

He took his brother's hand and laid it over his heart, trying to convey everything he felt with his heartbeat. It was fast, but steady, and Sam was awed by Dean's look of utter concentration and amazement.

“Ok. Ok,” Dean whispered.

He climbed over Sam, so that his back was to the seat of the back bench, Sam cradled to his chest. He leaned up and over, brushing Sam's bangs from his eyes.

“I never wanted this, you know,” he spoke as he bent to kiss Sam's nose, trace the outline of his ear with fingertips.

“I know.”

“But now? It seems to be all I want. And I fight it, God knows I fight it, but you're in me, Sam. Everything...I am yours.”

Sam couldn't say anything because how did you tell your brother you felt the same and were sickened by it all? Knowing it wasn't normal and yet loving every bit of it. That you enjoyed the pain you took from him, enjoyed the utter devotion, while at the same time it suffocated you and made you want to run far, far away? 

No, that wasn't something Sam could say. So instead he just grabbed Dean's head and kissed him hard and hungry, almost wishing Dean could read his thoughts. But there was no easy way to make Dean understand—especially when Sam wasn't sure he did himself.

Dean's hand smoothed down his body, fingers dancing over hard stomach muscles, twisting and tickling in the hair that led to his cock. Every touch was light and gentle and definitely not enough. He was soon arching into each kiss on his body, each breath, each lick and nibble.

His brother sucked at his nipples for seeming forever, blowing cool air, then hot, swiping his tongue across each like a cat, and then going back to sucking while rolling his tongue across the nubs.

“Jesus, Dean!” Sam keened, unable to make it stop, unable to make it more.

Dean just smiled sadly and slowly made his way down Sam's body at a leisurely pace that had Sam panting and begging and mentally scolding himself. He wasn't supposed to want this—not the gentleness, not the attention. He was only supposed to extract his pound of flesh and then stop. It was never meant to have gone this long.

By the time Dean actually touched his cock, Sam was ready to come.

“Dean, I need...suck me or fuck me or something! God, I need more. I need all of you.”

While Dean seemed to debate, Sam got himself in on the action. He slid big hands up and down Dean's spine, over his chest, reaching up to suckle on a nipple, slipping his fingers in between Dean's cheeks. 

That got him moving.

“Alright. Turn on your side,” Dean's voice was husky and low; the rawness hit Sam to the core. He did as his brother told him to.

Once on his side, he listened to the tube of lube being cracked open and a moment later, a wet, slippery finger breached him. He moaned, tossing his head. It felt good, oh-so good. He hadn't done this in forever. Sam never let Dean do this—he was always the one controlling it. This would be a first for them and Sam wasn't sure if this would make them better or break them. Sam thought, _making love_.

Then Dean slid in two fingers and Sam's hips canted, seeking pressure, seeking comfort.

“Don't worry. I got you, I got you...”

Sam listened to Dean babble, words incoherent, into his ear. He felt his top leg lifted and he held it up as the sound of foil being ripped open silenced his elder brother for a moment. Then Dean's cock entered him, and a calloused hand slid up and down the inside of his thigh. The hand crept intimately closer, rolling each ball, caressing each thigh, sliding back and making him see stars as it pressed down his perenium and going back even further to feel where Dean entered and slid out of him.

He was so open, so vulnerable. Sam wanted to curl up inside himself, turn around and have his _brother's_ arms around him, holding and smoothing his fears away like when he was ten. He'd forgotten why he'd stopped being a bottom ever—he wasn't comfortable. Winchesters weren't made to be open and that included their bodies. How could Dean stand it? Knowing what Dean must feel like every time when Sam did this to him, when Sam practically _raped_ him, nearly made him sick. But Dean seemed to know exactly what was going through his mind and he whispered into Sam's neck.

“No, Sam, it's ok. I know how you feel, don't beat yourself up, not for me. I love it when you do this to me. I know I shouldn't, but God, I do. I could never hate you...love you...mine...”

And Sam slowly relaxed, knowing it was his brother's arms around him, not someone else and no matter what Sam did to him, Dean would never hurt him. And so he gave into it, feeling Dean push in slow and hard, making Sam see spots from time to time as he'd just brush against his prostate.

Finally, Sam couldn't stand it anymore and with low moan, he turned his head around, albeit awkwardly, and found his brother's lips. Knowing what Sam needed now, Dean's hand slid home at last, jerking his cock fast and hard and shortening his thrusts.

Sam came hard and dirty, with Dean pumping into him full speed and his brother's tongue in his mouth. Still Dean jacked him off, making sure every last bit of come left Sam's body, making him feel boneless and useless; used. He writhed a bit more, and combined with Sam's flexing inner muscles, Dean came, throwing his head back into the seat and letting out a panting moan.

His hips kept thrusting until Sam thought he couldn't take it anymore, and he pulled away just as Dean slid out. Sam started to move, started to leave, but an arm shot out and wrapped around his middle, snugging him back in. Calming his breathing so as not to hyperventilate, Sam made himself relax into Dean's embrace.

“Stay,” the older whispered, and they both knew he didn't mean for just that moment. 

Some time later they were bedded down in the back of the truck.

“Dude, can you imagine Dad's face if he saw one of us, not to mention both of us, having sex in his vehicle?” Dean asked.

“You mean to tell me you never did when you were younger? “

“Nope. Only the Impala.”

They both went silent for a moment in an almost-prayer over the Impala.

“So much has changed since then,” Sam said, rhetorically.

“And so much hasn't.” Dean's voice was bitter.

Sam scootched over to rest his head on Dean's chest. “I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

For everything, he thought. For being what I am, for getting Mom killed, for not being able to save Dad, for us—for _this_. For messing you up when I didn't want to, for wanting it, for not being able to stay.

All he said though, was, “For, you know. In advance.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighed, “in advance.”

They were silent for awhile and Sam was drifting off to sleep when Dean spoke.

“All these stars. Even on the country roads, they're not like this. They're endless.”

“Hmmm?” Sam mumbled, looking up at Dean and following his gaze to the sky.

“You ever wonder...maybe we aren't alone?”

“I thought you didn't believe in aliens.”

“I don't. I mean, not little green men, or gray, or freaky robots and cyborgs. But I guess...if there's evil on our planet, why not elsewhere? Or are we some freak spot that attracts it? With science--”

“What do you know about science?” Sam smirked.

“Enough,” was the defensive reply. “Anyway, with everything science shows, I guess it's hard to think there's nothing else out there but dark matter and rocks. And when you can see the thousands of stars...”

“Kind of makes you feel small, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Dean looked down at Sam. “But then, I often feel that way.”

And Sam knew he wasn't talking about his brother's height. He moved up and laid a small kiss on plump lips. “You're my brother.”

“I know.” 

****

*************************************  
But we can't give you love and rhetoric without the blood. Blood is compulsory. They're all blood, you see.  
***********************************

  
Dean should have seen it coming. _Had_ seen it coming. In fact, Sam had never bothered to hide it from him. It had only been a question of time and place.

That didn't make it hurt any less. Or make him hate Sam more. He couldn't. Sam was kin. Hate was never an option.

Sam was standing in the doorway of the motel, bags packed only with clothes and body products. All guns had been thrown in with Dean's, lying haphazard like toys thrown away when a child grew bored. Knives still lay in their cases. Even Sam's favorite books lay with Dad's journal—with Dean's stuff.

It was four years later, almost to the day, that they had vanquished the Demon and Dad had died. Two years since they started fucking. Dean was thirty, and maybe, maybe that should have tipped him off. After all, thirty was the start up that long mountain of age which eventually sent you crashing back down into slow motor flexes and even slower wits. What twenty-six-year-old would want to hang out with someone like that? He couldn't blame Sam.

Especially seeing the bleak future of emptiness and loneliness that stretched before him in those years. 

“Sam, please. At least take some salt and a gun. I want to know you'll be safe.”

“Getting away from this is what will make me safe. Getting away from you,” Sam lashed out, angrily. “Don't you see? I never wanted this! I never wanted you! All I wanted was me and Jess and yet, I had to be born with fucking powers that aren't of any use anyway, except to make me a freak. I was born to a father who could only live for revenge after his wife was taken from him. I know I had the same tendencies but I've been with you for years now and that thing's been dead for some time. I'm ready to move on. I _have_ to move on.

“I was born to a brother who developed a case of knight-in-shining armor syndrome, who felt he had to cater to all my needs. _You_ helped push me away, Dean. You. If it weren't for what we do, maybe I wouldn't be leaving. But I can't handle it anymore, I--”

Dean lept off the bed, outraged. “You son of a bitch! Don't you dare try to pin this on me, like I fucking tainted you, or something! You came onto me—you were the one who _raped me_ , Sam!”

He watched as Sam flinched and he started to apologize. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean--”

“Yeah, maybe I did, but who fucking started it again? I could have left it alone after one time, but the very next night you crawled into _my_ bed.”

Sam's face was twisted and his eyes burned bright with anger. He stalked towards Dean, and shoved him against the wall. “You kissed me that night. You were the fucking slut of a brother I've always known you were and you didn't care that I was your brother—you just wanted more!”

Dean shoved him off, with a just-missed kick at the groin and then Sam was the one pinned to the wall. He struggled, but Dean had the better grip and better leverage and soon, Sam just slumped back.

“I did want more, you're right. But it was because you _were_ my brother. I thought it was just something new with us, another way to express...whatever we don't say. Maybe that makes me sick as fuck. But you kissed me back. Never forget that. You were the one fucking me all those times.

“God, Sam. You know I would do anything for you. I can't stand to see you get hurt. And if you wanted to hurt me or fuck me, I'd let you. Whatever it took. Whatever it takes.”

At that moment, Sam's eyes turned to liquid brown and he raised a large hand to Dean's face. “What did I do to you, without ever knowing? How did you become my everything?”

Dean just turned his head, still gazing at Sam, and kissed his palm.

Sam's grip tightened and he brought their lips together, a kiss without finesse, but warm and wet and desperate. When it ended, Dean leaned his head onto Sam's shoulder, lips over the pulse that beat strongly in his neck.

“Maybe, we're just ill-fated, two star-crossed lovers, never meant to be.”

“We're only that way if you make it so, Sammy,” he whispered.

“It's Sam.” Sam had straightened and his tone was cold again. 

Dean pulled away. “Damn it, Sam! Why can't you just stay?” He took a breath. “What will I do without you? Without someone guarding my back?”

“You'll live. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if you outlive me.”

Dean just nodded. There was nothing he could do. It didn't matter that they were family. Blood. Or maybe, it was because they were. He didn't know anymore.

“Go, then. Have your normal life. Forget about me and Dad and all the things that go bump in the night. I just hope, you have the decency to kill the monster under your kids' bed before someone gets hurt. Best of luck, Sam.”

Sam pushed away form the wall and grabbed his stuff, slinging it over his shoulder. The bus station wasn't far from the motel and once he got to Kansas City, he'd catch a flight. Dean had saved enough money, knowing one day Sam would use it. There was also a thousand dollars, a .45 and two knives tucked away in hidden pockets Dean had made in Sam's bag, that he didn't know about, but would find. Sam could try to forget, but Dean was sure he wouldn't.

Sam leaned in for one final kiss, but Dean turned his head, and it landed on his neck. His pulse beat faster once, twice, and then Sam pulled back, eyes angry, then sad. 

Sam turned and walked away.

Dean's heart broke into a million shattered pieces. Blood. Blood was all he could see.

 

**

Guildenstern: Is that what people want?  
Player: It's what we do.

**


End file.
